A few minutes later they are both in Lorenzo Rinaldi’s office. I expect you’ve already introduced yourselves, he says, and although they haven’t he keeps talking, assuming each knows who the other is. Nurit Iscar’s going to come at this case from a bit of a non-fiction angle, Rinaldi says, give it some high-quality writing. Non-fiction, the Crime boy repeats. And you’re going to handle the investigative, criminal aspect of it, the pure journalism. Do you understand? I think so. She’s going to move into La Maravillosa, I’ve rented her a house there. She’ll mix with the residents, listen, observe and write. I’d be up for that kind of fieldwork too, says the Crime boy in a level tone, trying not to let this sound like a complaint, although it is one. You can make up for that with good contacts, and of course if Nurit finds out anything relevant she’ll let you know. The same goes for you: any important, concrete piece of information you get, you call her right away or send an email. There’s a computer there with wi-fi and everything you need to be in constant contact. Send your articles straight to me, he says to the boy. Not to the chief sub; I’ll edit them myself. Nurit’s pieces will start coming out tomorrow, or the day after if she hasn’t got something by today’s deadline, says Rinaldi, adding: Keep half a page for her. Half a page? repeats the boy. Yes, does that seem like too little or too much to you? Rinaldi counters, though he knows the answer. No, the boy complains, I’m not saying it’s too much or too little in relation to what she’s got to say, but if we fill half a page with her articles there won’t be any room for other pieces, that’s the thing. Well, if you’ve got so much great stuff to publish and not enough space for it, we’ll give her a special page outside your section, don’t worry, says Rinaldi and looks straight at the boy, who holds his gaze as best he can. Nurit feels uncomfortable witnessing the stand-off, but decides that it isn’t her place to intervene. She doesn’t want to get off on the wrong foot with the Crime boy, especially since she doesn’t yet know whether it will be him or Rinaldi editing her copy, making cuts, choosing images, writing the standfirst, or even changing the headline. Nothing will be more important for our readers than a piece written by Nurit Iscar, says Rinaldi, putting an end to the discussion. Nurit, send everything to me with a copy to him but – and he addresses the boy directly – her stuff doesn’t get edited or cut. OK, says the Crime boy, who now wants nothing more than to leave. And Lorenzo Rinaldi’s next question gives him that opportunity: Have you already got something for today? I’m working on it, the boy lies, and then says: If that’s everything, I need to go and make a few quick calls.
You’re just the same, Betty Boo, Rinaldi says to her when they’re alone in the office. And, even though she knows it’s a lie, Nurit smiles. You too, she returns. No, I don’t think so; this president we’ve got now has made me age two or three years for every year he’s been in office. So the president’s to blame for that too? For what? For your grey hair and wrinkles? Yes, of course, nobody has enraged and disappointed me as much in the last few years as this country’s so-called leader. Ah, I can just picture the headline: “Editor of El Tribuno newspaper suffers premature ageing thanks to president, who refuses to pay damages”. Very funny – don’t tell me you still believe in him? Not in him nor anyone else, your lot included. Seriously? Very seriously. So how do you form ideas about what’s happening in this country of ours, or don’t you care? Of course I do – I care very much; I read all the papers, including yours, and then I base my opinion somewhere around the middle, taking my own beliefs into account, too. What an effort. But that’s the way things are now; you journalists have left us with no alternative. You always were a mistrustful girl, Betty Boo. Clearly not mistrustful enough, she says, standing up. I’d better get going – it’s a long way to that blessed country club. Do you think you’ll have something for today? Don’t put so much pressure on me, Rinaldi. There was a time when you liked me pressuring you. Once upon a time, she says, but we’re grown up now. It’s only been three years. Ah, but I measure them the same way you measure presidential years, she says, and smiles. He smiles too. Lorenzo Rinaldi walks with her to the door of his office, and before she leaves he says: I’ve missed you, Betty Boo. And even though she feels the words pierce her like a knife between the shoulder blades, she tries to walk on as though she hadn’t heard him. As soon as I have something worthwhile I’ll send it to you, she promises, and goes out.
Nurit Iscar walks along one side of the newsroom making more noise than she would like with the little wheels of her suitcase. Can you get an alignment and balancing service for suitcases? she wonders. The Crime boy sees her coming and deliberately turns his back to avoid having to say goodbye. Karina Vives, standing at the photocopier, recognizes her, but Nurit barely glances at her; she doesn’t know that this woman is known to her, she doesn’t recognize her face, and yet if someone said: that’s Karina Vives, she would instantly identify her as the person who wrote that damning review in El Tribuno of her last novel Only If You Love Me, destroying her career in the process. Jaime Brena, coming out of the lift, crosses her path too. Good morning, he says. Good morning, Nurit Iscar replies. They don’t know each other; or, rather, they’ve never been introduced, but each knows who the other is. They both have memorable faces, and both have been interested, to a greater or lesser degree, in the other’s work at different times. Jaime Brena steps aside so that she can pass with her suitcase. She thanks him. But the wheels don’t behave as they should and the suitcase ends up rolling over Brena’s foot. Oh, I’m sorry – how clumsy of me! Don’t worry, he says, I’ve been needing to see a chiropodist for a while anyway. She returns his smile, still feeling embarrassed about her gaffe. Bon voyage, he says as they walk away from each other and, as she gets into the lift, Nurit Iscar says: Thanks. Brena sits down at his desk. Immediately, the Crime boy comes over. You called me last night, he says. Yes, there was no answer and then I went to sleep. What was Betty Boo doing here? Betty who? Nurit Iscar. Oh, Rinaldi’s commissioned her to write reportage on the murder of Chazarreta, says the Crime boy, dressing the word “reportage” with light sarcasm. It’s not a bad idea; she’d be very good at that, says Brena. Why? Who is she? Where have you been hiding, kid? I don’t know her. Well, you should, she’s one of the few female crime writers in Argentina. You mean you haven’t read Death by Degrees? No. You have to read it – that and anything else you can get your hands on – to open up that head a bit. I haven’t got time. Sometimes I read a bit of fiction in the holidays. Make time, then, make time. If you want to be a good journalist you have to read fiction, kid; there’s never been a great journalist who wasn’t also a good reader, I can assure you. Jaime Brena takes out of his satchel the envelope he received the previous night from Comisario Venturini. Here, have a look at this. It’s from a reliable source and it may be useful to you, he says. The boy takes the envelope and casts an eye over its contents. He knows, for all his inexperience, that what Brena has just given him is priceless. Thank you, he tells him. Enjoy, Brena replies and gets to work on his next piece: Male babies cry more, earlier and louder than female babies. Bunch of poofs, he mutters, and starts writing. The Crime boy comes back and asks: What did you say her name was? Who? The chick who writes crime novels. Nurit Iscar. Yes, but you said another name first. Ah yes: Betty Boo. Because of the curls? I suppose I can see the similarity, agrees the Crime boy. A few years ago she was identical to Betty Boop, and that’s when we gave her the nickname. You and who else? That’s a professional secret, kid, Brena says, sternly. Then he turns towards Karina Vives’ desk and asks her: Did you know that baby boys cry more than baby girls? And she says: No, I didn’t know, and her own eyes fill with tears. Are you all right? he asks. It’s an allergy, she says. This time of year my eyes always stream. Jaime Brena doesn’t believe her but respects the fact that, for the moment, his newsroom colleague would rather not tell him why she’s crying. There will be time enough to find out why later, when they go outside to smoke.
The taxi that picked up Nurit Iscar soon after her bung
led exit from El Tribuno is now turning onto the Pan-American Highway. It’s a cool day, but with lovely autumn sunshine. She hasn’t come down this road for ages, not for years. Nurit Iscar hails from the south of Greater Buenos Aires, a very different part of the metropolis to the one she’s entering now. She goes back down there every so often to see her high-school friends. But what she sees travelling south on the ring road is very different to the views on either side of the Pan-American. The ring road is lined with tyre shops, garages, swimming pools run by trades unions for the benefit of their members and a university. In the last few years a hypermarket and even a golf driving range have sprung up. From what she remembers the Pan-American used to have a lot of “love motels” offering rooms by the hour. There aren’t so many now – or maybe they are just less obvious amid the proliferation of buildings on both sides. The cars around her are also of a different order to the ones she sees on the ring road. When she travels south it’s in the company of aged fleet vehicles, rickety cars with broken lights and registration plates with letters from the beginning of the alphabet. The cars she sees around her now, on the other hand, seem to get newer and more luxurious the further they get from the capital, with registration plates that start with H or I. There are shopping centres, cinemas, restaurants, factories, banks and businesses, health centres. And when they turn onto the Pilar road, she’s surprised by how green and kempt the embankments are, the grass on both sides of the road recently cut. The service road that runs alongside the highway is still an unpaved dirt track in places, but it is lined with home interior stores, antique shops, private cemeteries, car dealerships, small office complexes, “strip malls” – that American innovation, offering basic services such as pharmacies, mini-markets, newsagents, etc.: a support system for suburbs and exurbs – as well as a sushi restaurant from the same chain that has a branch in Puerto Madero near the office where her ex-husband works. Thinking of sushi leads to her ex, and thinking of him leads to the children, and only then does it occur to Nurit Iscar that neither Rodrigo nor Juan has answered the message she left to let them know that she was going away for a few days and where they could reach her. They’re big boys now, she thinks, but somehow that’s not a comfort.
A little before reaching the tollbooth she starts seeing the first country clubs. The club you’re going to can’t be seen from the road, says the driver. We have to go in. We have to go in, she repeats, more to herself than to him. At some point on the Pilar branch, the car takes a right turn and leaves the highway to travel along a side road perpendicular to the Pan-American. They continue for at least ten blocks then turn left, crossing a road that seems to be disused, and continuing a few more yards before arriving at the entrance to La Maravillosa. There are still two outside broadcasting vans from news channels standing sentry at the gate. And then comes Nurit Iscar’s first challenge. “First trial of strength” was how she described it later, on the phone to Carmen Terrada. There’s nobody in the house to authorize your entry, the guard on duty says. No, of course there’s nobody in the house, because I’m the person who’s going to be living there, she replies. But nobody has given me authorization to let you in. Look, I’ve got the keys. How would I have the keys without authorization? You wouldn’t be the first, Señora. Please call the owner, Nurit asks. We are trying to call him, but there’s nobody at home. Of course there isn’t anybody. Call somewhere else; call a mobile. We don’t have his personal details, only the home phone. OK, I’ll try to get hold of him, she says. By all means, says the guard, but please free up the entrance until we have authorization. We’re freeing it, we’re freeing it, says Nurit Iscar, and while the taxi driver parks to one side of the entrance she calls El Tribuno and explains the problem to Rinaldi’s secretary, who assures her that she’ll sort it out straight away and tells her it’s not a problem. Nurit Iscar lowers the window and lets the sun bathe her face. She sighs. Don’t worry, Señora, the taxi driver says, any minute they’ll let us through. It’s always the same in these places, you just have to have patience. But patience is not a quality she’s blessed with, and she can feel herself losing the little she has. Minutes later a guard approaches the car. The taxi driver starts the engine: They’re coming over to give us the go-ahead, he says. But he’s wrong. Señor, you can’t park here. I’ll move, says the driver. Why? asks Nurit, patting the driver’s shoulder to indicate that he shouldn’t move. Because it’s forbidden to park in front of the entrance to the club, the guard replies. I can’t see any sign from the National or Regional Highways saying that it’s forbidden to park here. It’s a regulation of the country club, Señora. The taxi driver sighs. The club can’t make rules about property that doesn’t belong to it, and the roads are public, Señor. These orders come from above, the guard insists. From above what? she asks. From above, the guard repeats. She looks up at the sky. Above there are only clouds, she tells him. From the club’s authorities, the man clarifies. Please explain to the authorities that the club has no jurisdiction over the roads, or over my life and my decision to park in an area that’s not prohibited by order of the National or Regional Highways, she persists. But it is prohibited, Señora, you’re not listening to what I’m saying. It seems to me that you’re the one who isn’t listening. Don’t get annoyed, says the taxi driver, I’ll just move the car. No. She stops him. I’m not moving from here. Señora, can’t you see that a car parked outside the entrance to a place like this compromises the security of its members? No, I can’t see that. And, anyway, I’m the one who’s in danger, from these men who are carrying arms that they may not have permission to carry. Do you have permission to carry them? The man doesn’t answer. Another guard approaches. The taxi driver says again that it’s no problem to move the car: Let’s not make a mountain out of a molehill. The street belongs to everyone, she repeats. I’m just following orders, says the guard who came over first. The lady’s been authorized to enter, says the one who has just arrived. The taxi driver breathes a sigh of relief and rolls forward in first gear. Just as well these guys aren’t cooking your Sunday lunch, he says. Nurit doesn’t grasp his meaning. They’d spit in the food, he explains. It’s important to know how to stand up for yourself, she tells him. But there are some lost causes, the driver says. That’s also true, Nurit concedes. When they arrive at the barrier, another guard asks for both their identity cards. The driver must also provide his driving licence, registration document and insurance policy. They take Nurit’s photograph with a mini camera. It’s so that from now on you’ll be registered and we won’t have to trouble you again, says the man who controls the barrier. Boot, please? the same guard asks the driver, who pushes a button to open it without getting out of his seat. Nurit Iscar wonders what happened to the rest of the sentence; where are the missing words, the unbroken syntax? Why does someone say “Boot, please?” and leave out the verb? What would the verb be: “May I see, or open, or look inside?” Why does the other one immediately understand and accept? There are no tacit verbs. “Boot, please” could mean: can I borrow your boot, take your boot, burn your boot, piss in your boot? Who stole those verbs from the guard, from the driver, who’s been de-verbed and doesn’t even know it? Why does the theft not matter to anyone? Is word theft not a crime? Is it only the word that’s stolen or the action it describes? OK, the guard says finally, and swipes a magnetic card over a reader which raises the barrier in front of them. Have a nice day.
Now they’re driving down the main street. Two lines of tall trees occupy the spaces that might have been used for pavements. Some of the uppermost branches meet overhead. See, I really like that, Nurit says to herself. But her pleasure is short-lived, because as they drive on the interwoven branches form a closed tunnel which she feels herself entering with no certainty of being able to leave. Like those children in nursery rhymes who open a door and plunge into another world, or fall into a well that leads into another kingdom or climb into a wardrobe that opens into an enchanted (bewitched?) forest.
The taxi arrives at its dest
ination. The house is by no means one of the grandest in La Maravillosa and yet it is much bigger, more imposing and striking than any other Nurit Iscar has stayed in. The driver opens the boot, takes out her suitcase and puts it down next to Nurit, then gives her a receipt to sign. If you need anything, give me a call, here’s my number, he says, and hands her the taxi company’s card. They told me that any journey you need to make is to be charged to the newspaper. We always work with El Tribuno – they have an account with us, so no worries, just call me. Oh, that’s great, I’ll call you, then. Absolutely, but call in good time because I live in Lanús and it takes me two hours to get here, two and a half in the rush hour. Lanús? she repeats. West Lanús, he clarifies. And what if I’ve got a headache and I need to go to the pharmacy to buy aspirin? I’d recommend that for that kind of emergency you get the number of a local taxi company from the guards; then, when you go to buy something, stock up. That’s going to be cheaper than ordering a taxi every time you need something. Yes, of course, she says, I’ll stock up. The taxi drives away and Nurit is left for an instant on the grey gravel with her suitcase in one hand, the keys of a house that doesn’t belong to her in the other, thinking of all the things she is going to need to stock up on so as not to feel that she may at any moment stumble into some kind of insurmountable emergency.
Betty Boo Page 8
